by Sienna Blake
I clutch them in my trembling hands. “Thank you,” I whisper.
I am finally free.
66
____________
Alena
One month later…
The last time I was in London was when I first arrived in England from Russia. The city seemed so grey and dirty then, stains and black moss oozing down blocky stone buildings. As I gaze out the window of the car that my publisher sent for me, I wonder if it is at all the same city, vibrant and busy with shops and people clustering the busy “high streets” of each area. I don’t even mind the traffic. It gives me time to admire the gorgeous old buildings with elaborate stonework that pierce the skyline with domes and spires.
Emily is with me. We’re staying at the Fifty-Four, a boutique hotel set in an Edwardian townhouse in South Kensington, a ten-minute walk from my publisher’s offices. It’s also walking distance to Hyde Park, the Science Museum and the Natural History Museum. In between work, I have plans to explore all these places with Emily.
I leave Emily at the hotel and walk to my publisher’s office on Cromwell Street, where I’m due to meet my editor to go over the notes she’s given me for my first novel—my first novel!
The sun gleams down through the shady green trees along the wide sidewalks, passing the rows of grand white stucco buildings, imposing pillars guarding the steps to their doors. I spot three Mercedes and one Ferrari on this block alone. I slow down near where I think the office is and glance down at the address in my hand for confirmation that I’m here, when I bump into a hard chest.
I glance up, apologies on the tip of my tongue. I freeze and swallow these words at the man standing before me, his own eyes wide with surprise.
“Dimitri.” His name falls from my lips like a prayer.
Never in a million years did I expect to see him here.
He looks incredible. Same shock of wild dark hair, same strong chiselled jaw, same cobalt eyes that pierce straight into my soul. There’s something different about him. Something I can’t put my finger on.
“Alena.” His voice, as deep and soothing as always, rumbles through my body.
“What are you—?” we both say together.
“How are you?” we say again. A nervous laugh trills from me.
He smiles. “Ladies first, please.”
I pause for a second, just staring at him. Is he…being pleasant? But…he hates me. I left him. Even after I said that I wouldn’t.
It’s only when he raises an eyebrow at me that I realise he’s waiting for me to speak. “I’m here to meet with my editor,” I blurt out.
He nods. “Your upcoming book, of course. Congratulations.”
His smile seems so genuine that I can’t help my surprise. He knows about my book. Javier must have told him.
“And are you well?” He pauses, then asks, “Emily? Edgar?”
“We’re all well, thank you.” I want to tell him that Emily has moved on since their breakup. There’s a man at the café where she works whom she’s been seeing—not the love of her life, but a nice enough man. I want to tell him that I’m divorced now. That I still think of him.
I don’t. I can’t seem to speak.
We stand there staring at each other, people sliding around us grumbling that we’re taking up half of the path. Neither of us seems to care.
I find my voice. “And you? How are you?”
“Good, thank you.” There’s a slight glimmer in his eyes, as if he’s pleased that I asked. As if he’s pleased that I care.
I want to know everything about him, where is he living, what is he doing, how has he been these last four months, does he think of me, does he miss me, but I settle for this appropriate question. “What are you doing here in London?”
“I…I live here. Sometimes, that is, when I’m not in the States for business.”
“Oh, I see.”
“My office is close by here. That’s why I’m in the area,” he says quickly, as if he wants me to know he has a legitimate reason for running into me in front of my publisher’s office. He runs his hand through his hair, something he does when he’s nervous.
He’s nervous. Could it mean…? Could he still…?
“You must know the area,” I say, confidence surging through me. “I’m staying at the Fifty-Four hotel nearby. Do you have recommendations for places to eat, perhaps?” I’m being obvious, I know, asking him for his food recommendations in order to give him an opening to ask me to dinner. I can’t help it. He’s being so nervous and adorable and kind. Not at all like he was when I left him at Worthington Manor. He is almost like the old Dimitri. I can’t help but let hope stretch her cramped wings again.
“I…” Something like pain flashes in his eyes. He tears them away from me. “I’m sorry, I’d love to keep talking but I just…I’m late. Excuse me. Congratulations again.” He brushes past me. Sparks shower through my body, making me gasp and sway in my ankle boots. I have to squeeze my eyes shut for a second to compose myself.
When I turn, he’s walking away fast through the crowd. Wait, I don’t know how to reach you. I don’t know where you live. I’m about to go after him when I realise what’s so different about him.
He doesn’t look angry. There’s not a glimpse of darkness in his eyes. No more rage. No more anger. He’s over me, I realise, and my heart sinks into my toes.
67
____________
Javier
“She’s here and you saw her and you said nothing?” I yell at Dimitri. I can’t help it. I’ve been watching him for months now trying to pretend he doesn’t still love her.
We’re both standing in his office in South Kensington. It’s taken him two days—two fucking days—to tell me he ran into her. He’s wasting time. She might be gone already. God, he didn’t even ask how long she’d be in London.
The only sign of Dimitri feeling anything is a slight press of his lips. “Calm down, Javier. We ran into each other on the street. That was it. She’s fine. I’m fine. End of story.”
I want to strangle the man with his own damn tie. This time last year I had to fight to reign him in, to control his emotions. In business, just like in life, he was always the risk-taker, the crazy one, the emotional one who ran at opportunities with the fury of a bull, sometimes based on nothing more than his gut feeling that something was a good investment. It almost always paid off, too. Now I’m lucky to get him to raise his voice at me. The man is completely devoid of emotions. He’s become like a pale version of who he was. Who he is.
I know it’s because he still loves her. He still hurts over losing her. Twice. Both times he now blames himself for. It’s like all that anger he used to throw out to the world, he now directs inward. Shutting off his feelings is the only way he can survive the regret.
“She’s single now.” I let out an exasperated cry. “And if she still loves you—”
“She doesn’t. She can’t love me, not after what I did to her,” he says, his voice seeping with bitterness. “She’s better off without me. Just let her move on with her life, Javier. I’ve done enough damage.”
“If she knew that you were the one to donate the money to the school so they could afford to hire her. If she knew you pulled your connections to get her husband back into business. If she knew you were the one—”
“That’s enough, Javier. I know what I did.”
“If she only just knew—”
“She won’t know. You’ve promised me on your life you wouldn’t tell her.”
I press my lips together. An idea flickers in my head.
Yes, I promised I wouldn’t tell Alena, but…
“Emily Worthington.” I give the girl behind the desk at the Fifty-Four Boutique Hotel my most disarming smile. Dimitri hadn’t mentioned that Alena was staying here. I put in a call to her publisher, who I happen to know. It didn’t take much for him to give me the name of her hotel. Thankfully she is still in London. “She should be staying here with Alena Worthington. Or perhap
s she goes by Alena Ivanova again.”
The girl shakes her head. “I’m sorry, sir. We can’t give out details of our customers.”
“I don’t need details, I just need you to call her room and let her know that someone is here to see her.”
The girl holds up a hold one minute finger as she answers a ringing phone. I let out a huff and look around the reception area as I lean against the marble counter. The hotel is in a converted Edwardian townhouse. Reception is in the old foyer, slim wood floors and white walls. The stairs behind me creak as footsteps pad down them.
“Javier?”
I spin around.
And grin. I did always say I am the luckiest man alive. Emily Worthington, the very woman I am after, is standing on the bottom step staring back at me.
“What are you doing here?” she says, her youthful face all smiles and rosy cheeks. She looks absolutely stunning in a knee-length royal blue dress, black leather jacket and black ankle boots. She’s become a real woman in the last few months.
“Emily Worthington,” I say. “I am here to ask for your help. Can we talk?”
68
____________
Alena
It’s wrong. It’s wrong and I don’t know how to fix it.
I scrunch up yet another piece of paper and throw it towards the hotel room bin. I let out a huff as it bounces off the rim and lands along with the other half a dozen signs of my failure.
My editor told me that my novel was perfect. Except for the ending. “It’s just…unbelievable,” she had said.
I told her I would submit a new draft ending by the time I leave London, which is…in two days and four hours. Shit. I stare down at the empty lined page. Come on, inspiration…
Nothing.
I hear the door to the room open and then footsteps. I felt bad that Emily was just sitting around this hotel room waiting on me, so I sent her out with my new credit card, telling her to buy something lovely for herself. She must have forgotten something.
“Alena.” Her voice nears.
Can’t talk. Trying not to die a failure.
“Alena,” she says, more insistently.
“What is it, Em, I have to—”
Emily swings my swivel chair around to face her. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes are sparkling with light. “Alena, you have to listen to me.”
I’m so curious at what could inspire such awe in her, I just nod.
She begins to talk. She spins a tale, a wondrous tale about how Dimitri donated enough money to the school so they could hire me, about how he secretly financed Edgar’s latest venture which is promising to catapult him into greater riches than before, about how he bankrolled the nursing scholarship that Emily had recently gotten, and finally, about how Dimitri instructed Javier to shop my manuscript around, swearing him to secrecy over his involvement.
She finishes talking. I can do nothing but blink at her.
I hadn’t even told her that I ran into Dimitri.
Why is she saying all these things?
“How do you…?”
“Javier told me. He came here and caught me downstairs as I was on my way out.” A small blush played at her cheeks. “Alena, do you know what this means?”
I shake my head, my brain still trying to catch up.
“He still loves you. Desperately. He did all of that for you.”
I blanch. “But you…”
“I never loved Dimitri,” she says, quickly. “Not really. I just wanted to have someone who would love me and never leave me.”
I clasp her hand. “Emily, I love you and will never leave you.”
“I know that, now. You also love him.”
“No, I—”
“Don’t lie to me, Leni. You suck at it.”
All this time I thought he was moving on. All this time I thought he wasn’t thinking of me. Dimitri did all that for me, even though he thought I would never know. I feel like laughing. I feel like crying.
She nudges my arm. “Go to him. Tell him the truth.”
“What truth?”
Emily gives me a look. “Really, Leni? You need me to figure that out?”
It rises to the surface of my murky mass of emotions.
I love him. No matter what he’s done.
Because of what he’s done. I love him.
I wring my hands. “Even if I did want to go talk to him, I don’t know where he…” I trail off as Emily pushes a piece of paper in my hands. A piece of paper with an address on it.
69
____________
Dimitri
Two days since I ran into Alena. Two days and I can still feel her bumping against my chest. I can still smell her scent.
She looked so beautiful, like always. But there had been something different about her.
I hadn’t known she was here in London. I had been shocked, but recovered quickly, making sure to remain calm, pleasant, to show her that I had no lingering hatred for her. Our conversation had been going well.
She had asked me for a dinner recommendation. I wasn’t so foolish to not understand what that meant. She wanted me to ask her to dinner. For a moment, my heart had leapt with joy. Then I realised what was different about her.
She looked free. She looked genuinely happy. Without me.
The realisation stabbed me deep in my solar plexus, taking away all of my breath. I knew she was better off without me. There…there was proof. Suddenly it hurt to be near her. I’m not sure what excuse I made—if I made any—before I scrambled away.
A knock on the door to my bedroom breaks through my thoughts. I shift in my chair.
“Come in, Javier,” I call.
The door opens. A figure too small to be Javier walks in.
“Alena,” I choke on her name. I leap to my feet, brushing my shirt down and running my hands through my hair.
She is as lovely as the day I first laid eyes on her. Not poverty, nor sickness, nor hatred of me could ever diminish her beauty. She’s let her hair go wild and natural again, like I always loved. Her eyes sparkle like the sun off the sea.
“I hope you don’t mind. Javier let me in.” She takes a step towards me and I swear I can feel the air pressurise against my skin.
You could never be an intrusion. “Not at all,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual. Unsurprised. As if The One That Got Away strolling into my bedroom was an everyday occurrence. “Please, take a seat. I can call for tea or something stronger if you like?”
I might need something stronger.
Shit. I should have kicked her out, not invited her for a drink. I wasn’t sure I could stop from falling deeper in love with her. My love was already hopeless.
She ignores my offer for a chair or a drink. “I wanted to talk to you about my manuscript.” Her eyes are on me, openness in them, gratitude…
I notice the pages in her hand.
Her manuscript.
That look in her eyes.
“You know,” I say, my voice growing hard.
“Javier didn’t tell me,” she says quickly.
“Then how—?”
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is why you didn’t tell me?”
I stiffen. That’s why she’s here. “I didn’t blackmail anyone into taking it. I just had Javier show it to publishers. They loved it. It’s a great manuscript, Alena.”
“You…you read it?”
I give her a single curt nod. Because I’m too busy trying not to fall further in love with her to speak properly.
“Well, thank you. Except there is something wrong with it.”
“Wrong? No, I read it all and—”
“The ending.” She steps closer. “The ending is all wrong.”
“Oh?” I can’t help myself, I inch closer to her. She has always been the flame that I will be eternally drawn to. She is my northern star. My way home.
“Yes,” she takes another step towards me and another. “I don’t think they should go to America.”
“No?
” I mirror her movements, my heart hammering louder the closer we get.
“I think, that’s what they thought they wanted. They’ve both made mistakes. They’ve both been silly and stubborn. And…and afraid of saying what they really feel. I think they want to stay here, to live here in England together, happy and in love. With Emily.” We’re almost toe to toe now.
“You mean Emma,” I correct her, because the girl in the novel is named Emma. I think I’m correcting her. I’m falling into her eyes, losing myself in her again.
“Here,” she pushes the papers into my hands, “you should read my new ending. You should read how…how it should end. How…I want it to end.”
This is a new ending. I don’t need the papers to tell me. I can see it right in her eyes. I can see all the love and forgiveness right there. It has always been there, I had just been too blind to see. I would not be blind anymore.
I set the papers aside. Alena lets out a small cry of displeasure until I take her hands, cutting her off.
“I love you, Alena,” I confess. “I’ll never stop loving you. I’d given up all hope that you would ever love me back. But by the grace of God, you’re here. You’re here, which means there’s a chance that…” I swallow the knot of emotion in my throat. “Do you think…? Could you see it in your heart to one day, maybe…forgive me?”
She laughs even as her eyes rim with tears. “You silly, silly man.” She flings her arms around my neck and presses her lips to mine.
I stagger under her weight for a second before I right myself and fold my arms around her, crushing her to me. Her lips are the sweetest things in the world. Like cherries. Sweeter than cherries. The moans she makes when my tongue licks against hers, I could live on them alone. Her heart, beating against mine, is the only song I will ever need to hear.
“I love you, Dimitri,” she murmurs against my mouth.